


It's Not The Violin

by copperbadge



Category: Sherlock (TV), Sherlock Holmes & Related Fandoms
Genre: Disturbing Content, Gen, Graphic Violence, Music, Platonic Love, Sherlock's Violin, Sociopathic Sherlock, Violins
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2010-08-23
Updated: 2010-08-23
Packaged: 2017-11-17 15:23:35
Rating: Mature
Warnings: Graphic Depictions Of Violence
Chapters: 1
Words: 3,831
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/553044
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/copperbadge/pseuds/copperbadge
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>Somewhere between <i>Alejandro</i> and the fistfight, John Watson became someone Sherlock Holmes would kill for.</p>
            </blockquote>





	It's Not The Violin

**Author's Note:**

> Though they don't necessarily share a theme, per se, this was inspired by **[Could Be Dangerous](http://lee-fragilidad.livejournal.com/74228.html)** , a really excellent Sherlock vid by Lee_Fragilidad.
> 
> Thanks to tzikeh for betas!
> 
> This is also a **[podfic](http://audiofic.jinjurly.com/its-not-violin)** and **[audiobook](http://audiofic.jinjurly.com/its-not-violin-audiobook)** , recorded by the lovely Pandarus!

The first time John Watson heard Sherlock play -- not pluck or scrape at his violin but actually play the damn thing -- he thought it was the telly.

It was also very loud.

It was also half past one in the morning.

Not that John had been asleep; he was equal parts insomniac and genuinely afraid of sleeping. But he'd been making the effort, lying in bed and holding the pill bottle up to the light, the prescription label stark and glaring in the dark. He hated the sleeping pills but sometimes he did need them, and it always took a while to admit it.

After about two minutes of registering the noise more than the music, he gave up and rolled out of bed, slipping down the stairway to the sitting room with the intent of asking Sherlock to please turn the TV off and go dissect something instead, because dissection was at least quiet. When he reached the doorway he realised there was no way this was the TV, even before he saw Sherlock standing near the window, playing.

He'd no idea what it was, other than a pretty song -- maybe some kind of waltz. Sherlock was totally immersed in it, eyes closed, delicate fingers moving quickly across the strings, head cocked slightly to one side to prop the violin. God, it was lovely, and a bit like something out of a gothic novel. Sherlock Holmes, who never did anything without a purpose, who found art tedious and literature a waste of time, was playing music for no reason John could see other than that he enjoyed it. He hadn't thought Sherlock really enjoyed anything.

He stayed there in the doorway, leaning against it, watching, until the music ended. He was about to turn and go back upstairs and leave him to it when Sherlock, without opening his eyes, tipped his head back and said, "Does it surprise you?"

"Yeah, a bit," John told him, and Sherlock's eyes opened. "It's nice, really."

Sherlock didn't reply immediately, fiddling with one of the tuning pegs on the violin. "Our parents thought no man was truly well-rounded unless he could play an instrument. Mycroft plays the flute."

"He does not!" John laughed, trying to picture Mycroft Holmes with a flute.

"Well, not anymore," Sherlock agreed. "He was always jealous."

"That you got a violin?" John asked. "It's marginally more macho, for a given value."

"Of my capacity with it. Mycroft isn't musical."

"I didn't really think you were, either."

Sherlock smiled a little, turning to him. "Anything you'd like me to play?"

"I don't know anything about music," John said. "I wouldn't know what to ask for."

Sherlock nodded and put his chin back to the violin, testing its tuning for a second before ripping into something fast and oddly familiar --

John burst out laughing again. "Is that Lady Gaga?"

"Is it? Is that artist or title?"

"Artist," John said. "How are you playing it without knowing what it is?"

"I heard it in a shop," Sherlock replied, managing to shrug without losing his place in the music. "It's not precisely _subtle_ , but I suppose subtlety for the masses is overrated."

John stepped into the sitting room, settling himself on the couch (normally Sherlock's domain). "You play from memory? Never mind, of course you do. Stupid question," he added, before Sherlock could even give him a sarcastic look.

"What's the song called, then?" Sherlock asked, still playing.

" _Alejandro_ , I think," John said.

"You see? You know more about music than you think," Sherlock replied. "Considering it, that also did seem to be the major theme of the lyrics."

John propped an elbow on the arm of the couch, resting his chin in his cupped palm as he listened. He didn't quite catch when Sherlock modulated away from Lady Gaga and into something else, slower and more contemplative, but Sherlock simply kept playing, switching from tune to tune across the chords. John gave up on propriety and dropped his head to the arm of the sofa, pulling his legs up under him, closing his eyes.

He did remember hearing the music stop, and the click of the violin case as it was closed gently, but that was the last thing he remembered until he woke up on the sofa the next morning, light streaming through the windows, the clock on the wall reading well past ten.

***

The first time Sherlock Holmes heard John sing, he wasn't really entirely sure what to think.

Objectively, of course, it was a good thing. He might ignore John's psychological scars but he wasn't blind to their existence; he simply didn't see how his making a fuss about them would help. He thought John's therapist was less than useless, but that was a value judgment on her, not on her profession or John's very real injuries. He knew John was a highly controlled man. Indeed, that was part of his appeal as a companion. Still, John so rarely seemed _happy_ , and Sherlock was led to believe that normal people generally sang in the shower when they were happy.

Objectively still but more personally, John had a good tenor; controlled (no surprise there), strong, and consistently on-key, reverberating off the bathroom tiles and through the door as Sherlock passed it on the landing.

Subjectively, what on Earth was he on about?

Sherlock lifted the doorknob to keep it from rattling and swung the door open to hear better; he listened idly for a little while before John brought the song to a stop and turned the water off.

It wasn't that Sherlock didn't know the rules of social engagement. He was perfectly capable of reproducing appropriate public behaviour on command. He simply didn't bother very often. It was in part that he didn't have the time for it, and also he felt it was pointless when with a glance he could already be in someone else's skin, knowing where they'd been and what they were thinking. Around John, who didn't care what Sherlock knew, he mostly ignored convention because it was amusing to see John react to it.

The curtain on the shower slid aside and John leaned out, moving forward. His eyes came up, he saw Sherlock, and he yelped instinctively, darting back behind the curtain. After a brief second, the curtain slid fully open and John stood there in the shower, arms crossed, looking annoyed. Modesty was apparently one of the many things beaten out of one in the military.

"Did you need something?" John asked.

"You were singing," Sherlock began.

"In the shower," John pointed out. "Towel, please?"

Sherlock passed him the towel and John scrubbed his hair and face with it, then tucked it around his waist as he stepped out.

"Close the door, it's cold," John added, turning to the mirror and flattening his hair down along his scalp.

" _What_ were you singing?" Sherlock asked, doing as instructed.

"Hm? Oh. _Hotel California_ ," John said. "I can send you the mp3 if you like." He hummed under his breath for a moment, still fussing with his hair, which was simply inefficient as he hardly had much to work with.

"The hotel is an allegory for hell?" Sherlock asked.

"I reckon so. Never really gave it much thought. _Welcome to the Hotel California_ ," he sang, more to himself, as if Sherlock wasn't there. " _What a nice surprise, bring your alibis..._ "

Sherlock shoved his hands in his pockets and leaned back against the door. "Most people don't react well to knowing others have heard them singing in the shower."

John glanced at him in the mirror, grinning. "You know everything about me; you've only to look at my shoes and wrists, or whatever. I've given up on mortification, Sherlock."

"Unconventional of you."

"Yes, well, it's an unconventional life," John told him, reaching around him for the doorknob. Sherlock pushed himself off the door by his shoulderblades, sliding aside to let John through. "Mind you, if I step out of the shower tomorrow and find you standing inside the bathroom again I _will_ punch you in the head."

"Promises, promises," Sherlock murmured to the humid room, once he was gone.

***

The first time John and Sherlock had a fistfight (also the last time) Sherlock technically threw the first metaphorical punch, but John's hit first.

John knew he was frustrated by the case. Everyone was, even Lestrade. Oh, they had their man and could put him away as soon as Lestrade's people found him, but both of them could see the handprint of Jim Moriarty all over the murder and yet there was absolutely nothing to link him to the crime. He knew Sherlock didn't consider the case closed, but all they could do was add it to the growing file of malicious mischief made by the London mastermind.

Still, he hadn't expected carnage to result.

He ran up the steps to their sitting room to the sound of breaking glass and loud thumps; his immediate thought was that someone had got into their home and was attacking Sherlock. Training kicked in over instinct, training that said _tripwires in doorways and mines in the ground_ , and he stopped for just a split second on the threshold to confirm the layout of the combat zone before he gave aid.

He did move forward again almost immediately, not to stop some phantom attacker but to stop Sherlock's enraged destruction of their flat. He was flinging books and belongings everywhere, clearly furious and taking it out on the nearest inanimate objects. One of the tables was overturned. Shattered crockery littered the floor by the fireplace. John took all this in as irrelevant side-information as he lunged for Sherlock, pulling him back from a charge on the coffee table.

Sherlock shook him off almost effortlessly and John pushed in again, going for his wrists; he got hold of one and found himself swung around, legs banging against the table, and he did the first thing that came naturally: he punched Sherlock in the chest.

The wind went out of him and Sherlock doubled over but turned it into a lunge; John pressed the advantage and caught his shoulder, shoving him back. He blocked a swing painfully with his arm and got his shoulder into Sherlock's chest, driving him overbalanced and off his feet, and then followed him down. They ended up on the floor, John struggling to keep Sherlock's wrists pressed to the carpet, knees bent and pressing on Sherlock's thighs so he couldn't get his legs up. Sherlock kept struggling; John headbutted him.

"Ow, _fuck_ ," he said feelingly, as Sherlock's head thumped back against the carpet. He sat back to press the heel of his hand to his forehead, letting Sherlock's wrists go. John's other hand went for his sidearm before he remembered no, he didn't wear it anymore and no, he wasn't in Afghanistan.

"Stay down," he said anyway, in his best _I'll shoot you if you don't_ voice.

Sherlock was breathing hard, but he kept still; John sat back on his heels, pressing his hand to his forehead until the worst burn of pain had passed, then leaning over to check Sherlock's eyes, make sure he wasn't concussed. Sherlock looked up at him, face impassive.

"You're fine," John said finally, leaning back. "If I get off you, are you going to try that again?"

"No," Sherlock said quietly. "Moment passed."

John looked up at the ceiling and laughed. "Well, that's all right then, isn't it?" he asked, as a certain amount of wrenching pain began to make itself known in the arm Sherlock had pulled him around with. He looked down again. "Someone's got to teach you manners, Sherlock. This is our flat, not your flat. Trash it again, go on, because I could do this all day."

"Skipped the chip shop today?" Sherlock asked, which seemed fairly random. John frowned at him. "You were twenty minutes early returning. None of your errands save the chip shop take twenty minutes. Had you returned on time, you would have found the flat already cleaned again."

"Yeah, and us down to our last two tea cups," John retorted. "Plus..." he picked up Sherlock's right hand and held it in front of his face. There was a shard of glass embedded in the round of his palm, just near the lifeline. Sherlock's eyes widened. John pulled the shard out and then pressed his thumb over the cut, staunching the blood.

From the doorway, Mrs. Hudson cleared her throat.

John looked up, realising what they looked like: Sherlock flat on the carpet, John straddling his thighs and holding his hand.

"I was going to see if you lads wanted tea, but I imagine you're busy," she said, her tone somewhat...delicate. "I'll just shut the door on my way down, shall I?"

"Yes, thank you, Mrs. Hudson," Sherlock said. John sighed. The door closed tactfully.

Another five minutes found Sherlock at the kitchen table, right hand flat and palm-up. John, an ice-pack perched on his shoulder, shone a light round the injury to make sure there was no glass left in it.

"You'll need to teach me that headbutt," Sherlock said. John set the light aside and glanced up at him before dabbing disinfectant around the cut. It wasn't deep enough for stitches, which on hands were usually more trouble than they were worth anyway.

"It's not something I enjoy doing," he said, reaching for the high-bond glue he'd found in a drawer.

"Headbutting in general, or me in particular?" Sherlock asked.

John held the edges of the wound closed and drew a line of glue along it, keeping his hand in place until the glue set. "Both. Though headbutting you was pretty thoroughly satisfying, actually."

"It was childish of me. I apologise."

"Apology accepted," John replied. "Now, try not to put any strain on the hand for a while. No violin for at least a week. No handguns for two weeks. You could do yourself permanent damage if you try," he added, which was enough to stem the rebellious look in Sherlock's eyes. His hands were his livelihood, if in a different way than most. With that kind of warning, he'd take meticulous care of it, John had no doubt. He tested the glue, found it set, and pressed a bit of medical tape over the whole thing, just to give it added protection. Sherlock pulled his hand back and studied it, fingers flexing one by one.

***

The first time John was hurt, really seriously hurt, Sherlock Holmes committed homicide.

There was no point in riding with John to the hospital or sitting anxiously at his bedside; Lestrade offered him a ride, but no amount of symbolic gestures would determine whether John lived or died. Instead Sherlock caught his hand as they were wheeling him past and kissed the palm, gently. John would berate him for that later, but nevermind; on the kiss he'd inhaled and learned what he needed to know. John had got his hand in the hair of the man who knifed him, and the lingering scent was enough to begin with. That combined with a brief once-over of the scene and the route of escape led him to a nearby hotel. A conversation with the desk attendant (plus a flash of Lestrade's badge, picked from his pocket) got him the room number.

These men had come after John specifically, had been _sent_ after John. While both John and Sherlock were in this, indubitably in it to the end, it was not nice to attack a man's friend to get his attention. Such things had to be nipped in the bud.

His plan was not entirely premeditated, or he would probably have thought to bring a silenced pistol. As it was, when he knocked on the door, the man who'd stabbed John opened it and Sherlock broke his neck in one smooth motion.

He stepped over the body and found the man's accomplice watching telly; this one he simply pinned to the wall with an arm, grasping his right hand tightly.

"The only reason I'm letting you live," he said, and snapped one of the man's fingers -- a whimper, hm, a hard one this one -- "is because I know you can tell the people who need to know," another snapped finger, this time earning him a yelp, "that John Watson is out of bounds."

He broke the other two fingers. The man's eyes rolled up in his head and he broke his thumb to get his attention again.

"If you come after John Watson," he continued, pressing tendon to bone at the wrist, "I will come after you. Tell them all. And if you tell the police what happened to your friend, rest assured, I might go to prison but you will go in the ground."

He released the second man and watched as he cradled his hand to his chest, bolting from the room. Sherlock looked around, took his gloves off, took out his mobile, and called Lestrade.

"Found him," he said, when Lestrade answered. "The knife's here," he added, catching sight of it under a pair of socks on the hotel sideboard. "I'm afraid we're too late, though."

"Sherlock, what've you done?" Lestrade asked.

"Picked a lock," Sherlock replied. "John's attacker is dead. Looks like he's had his neck snapped." He rattled off the address and room number.

There was a long silence on the other end of the line. Not all of it could be attributed to Lestrade muting the phone to give orders.

"I've got men on the way," Lestrade said finally. "Sherlock -- "

"How's John?" Sherlock asked, cutting off whatever question Lestrade was thinking of asking. Lestrade sighed.

"He's in surgery, that's all I've heard. He's a tough bastard, I'm sure he'll be fine."

"Thank you," Sherlock said, and went to hail a cab. As he was getting in, he heard sirens in the distance, heading for the hotel. "Royal London Hospital, Whitechapel," he said, and sat back to watch the lights of London scroll past.

When he arrived, John was out of surgery but unconscious. Sherlock bought himself a cup of coffee and some food, ate it without noticing what it was, and waited for Lestrade to show up. It was inevitable that he would.

"Hello, Trouble," Lestrade announced, settling into the chair next to him. "How's our lad?"

"I hate pet names, he's not our lad, he's out of surgery and apparently fine," Sherlock said.

"See? I told you," Lestrade said with a smile, but he sounded uneasy. "Did you call Harry?"

Sherlock looked at him blankly. "Why?"

"Because her brother's in the hospital," Lestrade sighed, and took out his phone. Sherlock heard the voicemail pick up after the fourth ring. "Harry, it's DI Lestrade, um, your brother's friend from -- anyway, give us a call back, right? John's fine, but he's had a bit of trouble. Not criminal trouble! Um, thanks."

"Coherent," Sherlock remarked.

"Are you really in a position to be smart with me tonight?" Lestrade asked. He leaned forward, resting his elbows on his knees. "Sally's always said -- "

"Sally's an idiot," Sherlock interrupted.

Lestrade steepled his hands. "What are my men finding in that hotel room, Sherlock?"

Sherlock turned to look at him. Lestrade didn't want to believe he'd done it, didn't really in the end think he was capable (or want to think he was capable), and knew that even if he had done it, there would be no evidence. It would be easy to subtly convince him. Consciously, Lestrade would always do his level best to get his man -- not that Sherlock was terribly impressed with Lestrade's level best, but he could respect honest effort so long as he didn't have to put up with it too often. Subconsciously, he wanted to be convinced Sherlock was innocent.

"Evidence of double-occupancy," Sherlock said. "One body. Probably some hair and fibre forensics; I was in the room. No other occupant. He's likely done a runner."

"You picked the lock," Lestrade said.

"Fine me for it if you want, I don't care. I'm glad he's dead," Sherlock said. "I rejoice in his death."

Lestrade looked sidelong at him. "But you didn't cause it."

"No," Sherlock lied. Easy; quick; sincere; still a lie. Lestrade exhaled and leaned back, staring at the ceiling.

"I could almost..." he said, and then started over. "I know you hate tedious questions, but it's at least something to do while we wait."

"And you now recognise their tediousness, at least," Sherlock put in. Lestrade laughed a little.

"Sure. So here's my question: what's so special about John Watson? I mean he's a nice enough bloke, and I get that not many people want to spend more time around you than they have to," Lestrade said, "but 'nice bloke' and 'puts up with me' don't usually merit this level of devotion from you. Anyone else, you'd be tucked up at home for the night and maybe, _maybe_ phoning in the morning to see if they'd died."

Sherlock was silent.

"All I can think is he must be an amazing shag," Lestrade added.

"We're not sleeping together."

"Then why, Sherlock?"

Sherlock sat back, considering it. "My brother," he said slowly, "thinks that London's a battlefield. Little skirmishes constantly going on, strategies mapped out, arms taken up. John might too, I think. I see it more as a hospital, full of disease that needs diagnosing, wounds that need lancing. John's the best doctor I know."

***

When John Watson opened his eyes for the first time after being stabbed, he heard music.

For a minute he thought maybe he'd finally tipped over into the real hardcore crazy, but then he turned his head and saw Sherlock standing at the window to the hospital room, playing _Bad Romance_ on the violin.

"There's something very off about you," he croaked, when the song was finished. Sherlock turned around, all dramatic flappy coat and gothic violin.

"I looked her up on YouTube," he said. "She's very fond of latex."

"What happened?" John asked.

"You were stabbed," Sherlock replied, in a tone of voice that implied _duh._ John became aware of voices outside his room; it sounded like his sister and Lestrade having a catfight, which he wouldn't have believed if this weren't the kind of life he lived now. "I'm told you'll live."

"They catch whoever did it?" John pushed himself up carefully and took a cup of water from the tray nearby.

"It's taken care of," Sherlock said smoothly. Harry shouted something unintelligible; Sherlock's fingers twitched on the neck of the violin. John realised the music had been to cover the epic row going on outside.

"Can you play _Poker Face_?" he asked.

"Not easily," Sherlock replied, but he put the violin to his shoulder. "I did learn _Tequila Sunrise_."

"That's fine," John said. "By the way, I hope you know that this is all going in my blog."

Sherlock smiled and began to play.

END


End file.
